Ready for You

By The Versatile Scarf

A/N: I'm studying for a psychology exam, but it is his own advice that we allow it to... incubate. So guess what I'm going to do.

Sorry to all of those who voted against slash. This is beginning to creep in that direction. Nothing explicit, nothing even set in stone. In fact, this chapter is still in the friendship area, so no worries there. Hoorah.

Song: Up and Gone - Hoobastank

x-x-x-x-x

approach him slow don't be afraid to say can he come out and play

The door creaked open, and a pair of large, warm brown eyes peered into the dimly lit room. It took the owner a moment to adjust, but she wasn't looking to look. She was looking to listen. After all, she couldn't help but be curious. Not that they couldn't hear the conversation from the other room, but she felt so.. removed from it.

"What did you expect? You were the one who left when we needed you. When Roger needed you."

Silence for a long moment. Joanne leaned against the back of the toilet, eyes shut, face directed to the ceiling. The cell phone was held loosely, comfortably, but her body expressed a certain tension. A tension at keeping herself calm.

Maureen wasn't sure she could have managed that. Maureen was almost positive that she would have started yelling at him as soon as she wrangled the phone from Joanne's hands, but luckily the lawyer had managed to keep hold of the device and retreat to the bathroom, locking the door firmly behind her. The drama queen had pounded until she'd realized it was futile, and then simply slid to the ground and listened, ear pressed to the door, eyes shut.

"You could have at least called, Mark. We thought... Well yes. For someone as reliable as you to suddenly disappear completely, you must have died."

The door opened a bit more, and the light spilling in drew Joanne's attention to her lover. A hand raised, shooing the performance artist, who responded with nothing more than a pout, as was her way. The lawyer had unlocked the bathroom door when she stepped out to see who was pounding at the door to room 517, and had apparently forgotten to lock it.

"Tell him he's an asshole."

"No, Roger. Nothing, Mark."

The musician sulked further onto the bed, disappearing into his leather jacket almost completely. Indeed, it had been Roger Davis knocking furiously at the door perhaps fifteen minutes after the initial call had come. Those first fifteen minutes had been something of a rollercoaster, it seemed to Maureen. All she heard was Joanne telling her former flame to calm down, it was okay, shh. Now, another ten minutes after Roger's arrival, they were speaking in a civil, non-hysterical sort of way.

Mark, hysterical? It didn't mesh. Those puzzle pieces didn't fit together in her mind. But then again, Mark not paying attention to her, as had been the case when they'd attempted to 'cure' him, didn't make sense either.

Stepping back, Maureen shut the door the second time that hand gesture was wiggled in her direction. Lingering in front of the bathroom, her pout deepened when the definitive 'click' came once again. No use barking up that tree. When Joanne had her mind really set to something there was no swaying her, much as she'd like to sometimes. Coming to terms with the fact that she wouldn't get anything more from this place than she would anywhere else, the young woman turned and strode to the bed, taking a seat beside her former loftmate, staring at the muted television as though it held any interest. It had to, judging by the way Roger was staring at it. Then again, Roger was staring at it as though he might stand up and throw it against the wall.

"Do you hate him?"

"Shouldn't I?"

Maureen shrugged, leaning back against one of the pillows, crossing her legs in front of her. Roger remained exactly as he'd been, chin on his chest, arms crossed, the absolute picture of a denied child, only far angrier and much more threatening.

"I don't. I mean.. everyone needs their space sometimes. And maybe Mark just needed a lot more of it. The longest he'd been out of New York before was only a week. He's lived in this god forsaken state his entire life."

Roger's teeth were grinding together.

"He just left, Maureen. When we needed him. Mimi.. I can't forgive him for that. I can't forgive him for missing Collins' funeral.. His entire death."

The performance artist interrupted with an enormous, drawn out, melodramatic sigh.

Roger bristled terribly.

"Don't you dare make it sound like it was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing, Roger. I miss them both more than you believe." She was standing again, moving away from the musician, listening intently to the conversation in the bathroom for a moment.

"We don't have many pictures. Nobody liked looking at cameras.. but if this is what you really want to do.."

"But you're missing something here. Something pretty big."

"Oh yeah?"

"You did the same thing."

The silence that followed blocked out the conversation in the bathroom. There was only Roger and Maureen. There was only their locked gazes. There was nothing else.

"... That's bullshit, Maureen."

"Right. Bullshit. 'Cause you leaving after Angel died was so different. You know how much she meant to him."

"Mimi and I were engaged."

"You still left him."

"He had you guys."

"And so did you!"

"IT'S DIFFERENT!"

"Why?"

Roger's mouth was open. Roger's mouth was open to respond. There was a remark on the tip of his tongue.

But nothing came. There was no answer. Nothing that would be truthful.

Why was it different? Why was it different that they'd had their friends, but not each other?

"I..." A monosyllabic croak, and nothing more. The voice that had melted the hearts of young women wherever it was heard had been silenced; stripped away. Maureen was smiling, blinding white shaped by luminous red, knowing but not mocking. Honestly. For being the more emotional of the two, Roger certainly had trouble recognizing the emotions he did have.

Roger was rescued from having to respond with anything more by the door to the bathroom opening and Joanne emerging. She took in the position of the two, from Maureen standing, hands on her hips, looking triumphant, to Roger sulking on the bed, and decided any questions would be a bad idea.

"Mark's coming ove--don't you move from that spot, Roger Davis."

There was something about Joanne that the musician dared not test, and he slumped back onto the bed.

"He'll be here in forty-five minutes or so. He... wants to catch up. He wants to know what he's missed. And we're going to give him that chance."

Roger said nothing for a long moment, gaze toward the window.

"... Fine."

x-x-x-x-x